It’s pretty much impossible to retain all of your street cred when your record becomes a bestseller. But the National – a stalwart Brooklyn, N.Y., indie institution with a decade-long career – keep it as real as they can while their audience expands.

Their latest, “High Violet,” busted up to No. 3 on the Billboard charts the week of its release last month – and on an independent label’s promotional budget. Can we still call a band that headlines the House of Blues two days straight, as the National did Wednesday and Thursday, indie? Then again, we’ll probably never hear the kids on “Glee” belting National songs anytime soon. The quintet’s expansive, elevated smart-rock doesn’t exactly lend itself to “High School Musical”-style renditions.

Oodles of accompaniment – horns, violin, keys and auxiliary percussion – helped even the more pensive National tunes (such as “Mistaken for Strangers”) pack a wallop live. Set closer “Fake Empire” was capped off by the most epic violin solo this writer can recall. Still, it was hard to shake the feeling that seeing the same set of musicians play at T.T. the Bear’s Place five years ago would’ve been something truly special. Now that the context has changed, Wednesday’s show felt a tad glossy, even if it was fantastic by most objective standards.

But then the National, a band comprised of two sets of brothers and songwriter Matt Berninger, never intended to sound unpolished or anything less than classy. They even looked more like sociology or English teachers than rock stars, with the exception of drummer Bryan Devendorf, who was decked out in a yellow T-shirt, sweatband and glasses and would fit right in on latfh.com (which stands for “Look at that (expletive) hipster”).

While periodically sipping from a wine glass, Berninger delivered understated yet powerful lyrical yarns. Though a brilliant singer, Berninger epitomizes the shortcomings of dancing white people. At the encore’s onset, one fan brashly suggested the National “Rock out like Sasquatch.” The band members scratched their heads trying to interpret his request. One of them asked, “The mythical beast?” Maybe the show wasn’t so excessively glossy after all.

The Antlers treated those who arrived early to octave-hopping wails, sparsely explosive drums and melodies seemingly inspired by robot lullabies. The dream pop of the National’s fellow Brooklynites provided a scrumptious sonic appetizer.